Lately, I’ve been…I’ve been losing sleep. Sorry, I couldn’t resist. I hate that song because, once it gets in your head, it won’t leave. Lately, I’ve been calculating my grocery bill while I shop. I’d never really budgeted for groceries before. Down to the dollar budgeting. Well, at least trying to but invariably going over just a smidge. There are always those last few items that push me over. As do those male shoppers who don’t know the rules of the aisles. Stay to one side, park, and step forward to get what you need. Don’t occupy the center lane. And definitely don’t write a check to pay.

Source: Me

I’ve learned to avoid most boxed things like crackers and snack mixes. Not because of the poor nutritional value but because of the price. Besides, those snacks don’t go far in a large family. Neither does a gallon of ice cream. I buy cereal on sale and, thankfully, my son’s favorite kind is Corn Flakes with added raisins. A little fiber never hurts. There’s something about a raisin that’s hard for me to swallow. Kind of like pudding and gelatin and all of those foods that are recycled from the beginning years of life. The ones you can mush and swallow and don’t even need teeth to eat.

There are so many stories about food in the news. The pyramid that’s been converted to a plate diagram and redesigned nutritional labels with realistic serving sizes. I’d once thought that I wanted to be a nutritionist. Then I had to complete a weekly meal plan assignment in college. That’s when I knew that I didn’t want a life, with family and a career, revolving around food, calories, portions, etc.

I watched a news story about how adult children are teaching their parents how to eat healthier. I hope that my children learn from my habits. I don’t obsess about food and don’t feel remorse if I eat a Frosty and a cupcake in lieu of any real dinner every now and then. Sometimes that just nourishes the soul. Daily? Now that’s a problem. I also consume protein shakes, chia powder, psylliym husks, and flax oil. That’s well-balanced, right? You won’t find any kale chips in my house. Although, in fairness, I haven’t ever tried them...yet. One recent headline read: “Why half of Wal-Mart’s Groceries Are Banned by Whole Foods.” Foods that are banned because the ingredients are “unacceptable.” Not just the Ingredients found in blatant offenders like farmed seafood and fried pork rinds, but the ones in unsuspecting foods like Wal-Mart’s whole-wheat bread. Most families don’t shop at Whole Foods. It’s expensive. Even Target (tar-ZHAY) is upscale. Whenever I hear “experts” say that eating healthy is affordable must shop with different money than me or may not have as many mouths to feed. They haven’t compared prices for everyday items like ketchup without high-fructose corn syrup fillers. Items that real families use. And if the fillers are out, that should count towards the fruit/vegetable group. Not that I’m striving for an exact balance. Acceptable is good enough. Just without the Whole Foods prices.

No matter how much we try and insulate…wait. Who am I kidding? It’s impossible to raise children in a bubble without pop culture influencing them. Just the other day my daughter came home with a homemade grill from the leftover tin foil in her lunch bag.

I’m so proud. I’m not sure whether to credit Madonna for the hideous fashion trend or some rapper spewing the ‘N’ word. That’s ‘N’ with an ‘a’ and, yes, the ending matters. That’s not a word that I use or condone. Kids learn this stuff. Just like they learn about sex and porn and everything else that we want to shelter them from for as long as we can. Even more cringeworthy than the homemade grill is when my 12-year-old son recites the lyrics to popular rap songs, word for word, as if he has a clue about gangsta life or the meaning of misogyny. I’ve told him that I won’t answer to being called “woman” even jokingly. And, because you're white, don't ever say the ‘N’ word even if everyone says it or that's how the song goes. Find a new verse, I tell him. Better yet, find a new song.

I also explain that we have a parrot in the house named Peter. Not an actual parrot, but a 7-year-old who will say whatever whenever, even revealing such personal things like how his older brother’s privates are now hairy. You see what I mean. He repeats everything, including the words he knows are forbidden. He told his teacher that if he was performing in the talent show he’d pick a song with all the bad words. Words that he'd recite if prompted.

I'm always worried that he's going to say something mortifying like calling grown men with ponytails girls or pudgy men with guts fat. He's done both. Over the weekend, I drove my oldest son and two of his friends to the basketball park. I was tense just waiting for Peter to blurt out something offensive to the two black friends. I held my breath as I turned into their apartment complex. Lately he’s been telling me how his classmates live in “mansions” so I expected him to make some kind of comparison. Whew—safe. He stayed quiet.

Then the boys got out of the car and he said it, the ‘N’ word, to his sister who was poking him in the backseat. I flung my head around and told him to never say that word again, thankful that I wasn’t scolding him minutes earlier. I told him that's one of the worst words to say. “Like vagina?” he asked me. “Way worse,” I told him. That’ll have to be the lesson for now.

Do you Like birds? Eagles? Watching nature devouring live prey? Or are simply patriotic? Here's a live stream from a Bald Eagle's nest. She's sitting on two eggs that should hatch any day. My kids don't share my enthusiasm, but maybe yours will. Here's the link: http://www.berry.edu/eaglecam/

I came across this philosophy for life that I wanted to pass along. This wisdom explains how we derive meaning from each day and how we quantify time, more specifically hours, to live our best lives.

Everyone works to juggle three variables: time, money, and energy. Often, one of these is usually lacking. And, in my case, more than one seems deficient most days. Life is all about optimizing each.

To do this, each 24-hour day is divided into three 8-hour blocks. (TIME) One block is for sleep. (ENERGY) The next is for your career. The part that usually locks us into that iron cage just to pay for our survival. (MONEY) The third block of time is allocated for our passions, hobbies, and other activities that define who we are beyond the mandatory parts of sleep and work. This is the creative part that gives meaning to our lives where our species being can flourish. The part that makes us distinctly human.

Source: Dreamstime

Now, I’ve been thinking about this philosophy ever since I read about it. At first, I thought it was the most brilliant advice I’d ever read. Then I began to see the flaws of an idealized plan that’s much too simplified compared to actual life. Who works only 8 hours? That doesn’t even take into account the commute. And does anyone with a family have even half of an 8-hour block that isn’t devoted to kids? Plus, haven’t some people merged their passions into careers? You see there are many faults that wreck the equation. We all know that one size usually doesn’t fit all, whether it’s following a philosophy or wearing a T-shirt. So, perhaps you can adapt this concept based on your stage of life or just be conscious of how you spend your time. I think we’re all seeking more meaning in our lives. And time, money, energy…

Yes, I know it’s only the middle of February, but it’s beginning to feel like summer. Not in the weather sense, although it is warming to nearly sixty degrees today with a sky just blue enough to remind us that we’re near winter’s end. Pockets of snow are the only telltale sign that winter has overstayed her due. So, too, have the kids who are now into their sixth day at home. Days that have felt more like an unwelcome teaser for summer break. That’s a time of year that, given the chance, I’d rather hibernate away from it all more so than I’d like to sunbathe with a six-pack of Corona Light. I’ve come to the conclusion that the sun’s rays are equally as damaging to my face as the stress from being a mother. I remind myself that I’m in the homestretch with less than twenty-four hours to go. By then I’ll be in recovery mode, overcoming this acute brain fog. The one that most mothers knows (and sometimes wives, too) when caring for underlings zaps our mental faculties. I can’t argue with the prior days off after the last ‘snow’ incidence with buses on icy roads. But, doesn’t it seem that today, President’s Day, should be a mandatory attendance day devoted to our past leaders? Perhaps a day where students learn to recite them all in order. Instead, the kids are home, wallowing on the furniture, eating me out of house and home while asking, “What’s for dinner?” at 9 a.m. They’re groggy from the late nights and days off, confessing that they aren’t ready to go back to school as they sit eating a bowl of raisin bran, bodies slanted and their chins resting inside their cupped palms. Oh, the pressure to be young. (Insert sarcastic cough.) The kids know better than to ask me how I feel. I think my perturbed expression and yes, maybe even a juvenile eye roll, tell my sentiments. I love them, though. Really, I do. Absence does make the heart grow fonder, though. And, I know what you’re thinking. But I’m not going to give them a history lesson at home because you know how I feel about home schooling. Not to mention, history has always been my worst subject. I’d rather deal with the present than try and understand the past. Naïve? Yes, maybe. It’s not surprising then that I wasn’t familiar with all of the Presidents’ names when completing this word search. Hopefully you’ll recognize them all.

“How you doin’?” If you’re answering “fine” in your head then you must not be familiar with Wendy Williams and her eponymous talk show. The one where audience members echo her catch phrase with the accompanying two-handed begging pose. I once thought that Wendy Williams was on par with Jerry Springer, minus the bouncer and onstage brawls. Then my trilingual professor admitted to watching her show. I couldn’t believe a woman of her intellectual capacity watched a sleazy talk show like that. But then again she also had a twenty-something boyfriend who still played video games. Long story short, I watched an episode and, two years later, the show is still programmed in my DVR.

Earlier this week the overly verbose and forever chic actress SJP was a guest. (Side note: SJP is Sarah Jessica Parker for the lone standout who never watched Sex and The City or might’ve been only a passing fan after hearing about Gilles Marini’s shower cameo after his appearance on DWTS. I won’t mention any names, but you know who you are.)

So in between promoting her new shoe line, SJP told Wendy that she hoped her son would grow up and be “decent.” Wendy agreed. Somehow merely being “decent” seems like straddling the mediocre bar. It’s the same as answering OK in response to, “How you doin’?” Would you be satisfied if your child was simply decent? Not me.

Source: Concise Oxford English Dictionary 11th ed. (2004)

Decent is one of those diluted words like amazing and awesome. Those descriptors that don’t connote something one of a kind but something run-of-the-mill and average. Ordinary and commonplace. Think about it. Wouldn’t decent describe how your child scored on a test or how the service was at a restaurant? Sometimes it just might describe the taste of that organic brand of frozen taquitos or that new chicken casserole recipe that’s barely edible for a one-time at meal. Raising a child who’s decent just doesn’t seem enough to aspire to. Aren’t children already born decent? That’s partly the reason why I’ve always rejected the concept of original sin as if children were defective upon arrival. I just don’t feel right hoping that my children are—above all else—decent. That seems to shortchange their potential and the whole eighteen years it's taking to raise them.

When I was in high school, I took auto mechanics even though I knew I’d never work in a repair shop. The class was an easy elective where I could slack and still earn an A. High school electives are what are known as specials for younger kids. You know those schedule fillers like art, music, and P.E. that appeal to only a minority of students. And for most kids without a musical ear, art gene, or physicality, those classes pique more misery than enjoyment. Peter rationalizes his contempt by telling me, “I’m never going to be an artist.” I believe him, and although he makes a valid point that won’t excuse him from participating. On Friday, Peter came home with a discipline referral form for not participating in music.

He can’t help it. He rebels in the ways that most people want to. And by rebel, he speaks without a filter and won’t cooperate no matter the reward. If discipline referral forms were handed out in life, I’m sure we’d all be guilty of racking up a few infractions. Some more than others. Most of us adhere to behavior norms and bite our tongues or forever hold our peace, so to speak. We couldn’t all go through life voicing that dialogue in our head. Yet, if an argument ensues around me then I can’t guarantee that I won’t watch with interest. For Peter, sitting through his weekly specials is like a doctor visit for us. How many times have you been sitting in a packed waiting room, inhaling air that’s saturated with viral contaminants no matter which way you turn? You sit and wait, thinking that any minute you’re just going to lose it and walk out. Then you get back to the exam room and wait to be seen again. Hopefully, fully clothed and not stark naked with one of those scratchy paper drapes covering your lady bits. There you sit impatiently waiting and the timing of your wait is now reset because you’ve moved locations. You want to open the door and shout, “What’s taking so long?” to whatever nurse is in earshot. And if your kids are with you then you can use them to your advantage while looking the other way. They can open and close the door loudly without turning the handle. Then they can peek their heads out so that someone in charge will expedite the process just to get rid of those annoying kids. Then it’s over and all is right with the world again. Well, not quite, but at least we're outta there. School is the perfect training for life and not strictly academically speaking. (Side note: That math we thought we’d never use does come in handy. Assembling a car’s brake? Not so much.) I often tell my kids that life is all about doing tasks that we don’t want to do. There are days that I don’t want to cook dinner, load the washer, or watch another episode of Pawn Stars with my husband. But just like sitting through music class, the discomfort is only temporary. Now if I could just convince Peter.

“What movie do you want me to bring?” my son’s friend asked. They weren’t setting off on a vacation having to endure a long car ride. They were riding twenty minutes across town. I’m always amazed when I see screens lit up in cars at night. Mostly in the backs of minivans. When my kids were younger, I purposely chose not to get the built-in DVD feature. Whatever happened to I spy, the alphabet game, or simply talking to one another? There’s a lost concept. If you didn’t know me, you’d think that I was an older baby boomer (and morbidly obese according to my husband because of my cravings.) I’m not ashamed to say that I’m old school in many ways. The same kind of situation happened when my daughter and her friend were eating. I normally make my kids put their devices away during family dinners, but since we were eating in shifts I didn’t make an issue of it. I noticed that the girls weren’t really eating. Instead they were fixated on the friend’s iPad, watching a movie on Netflix. This makes me sad. Not in the distraught kind of way, but a longing for the olden days. The time when technology didn’t occupy every waking minute. I’m guilty of being plugged in too much myself. I don’t read before I go to bed. Instead I squint and read articles on my phone in the dark. Now I’ve written a post before about ‘Dear Abby’ and criticized her advice. Yet I still read her column more so for entertainment than infotainment. And I must say it’s quite sleep-inducing. This was the one I read last night:

DEAR ABBY: I am writing about the letter from "Holding My Tongue" (11/8), the woman who was upset because many children were playing with electronic devices during her grandchildren's school concerts and recitals. While I agree that most children should pay attention to the event at hand, as the mother of two children on the autism spectrum, I have a different perspective. There are apps and games designed to keep these children occupied and help them deal with the stress and anxiety of being in a large group of people. I should not have to leave my sons at home because they are on the spectrum, so a harmless, quiet game that allows them to participate without being disruptive is a godsend to me. Sometimes it is not obvious why someone is doing something; so as long as it isn't disrupting the event, please try to be tolerant. -- LAURA IN PENNSYLVANIA(The full post: http://news.yahoo.com/kids-39-handheld-electronics-may-more-fun-games-050116550.html)

Oh, good ol’ tolerance! So many of us request it, and still so many of us just don’t have it. Just look at the reactions to the Super Bowl Coke ad. Whether it’s devices we see or those kids who seem like they need a dose of discipline, think about parents like Laura in Pennsylvania who are just trying to get by. And if it takes a device to calm a special needs child, so be it. The rest of those kids? What's your excuse?Happy Friday! (Err…not. The kids are home.)

There’s one job that I never want. Well, besides the obvious careers in technical or electrical services. I’m about as suited for that as I am for being a school teacher. No thanks. I never want to work in pharmaceutical sales. The concept of building relationships with doctors who will then prescribe drugs that reward me financially just doesn’t sit right with my conscience. We’ve become a nation reliant on prescription drugs and that should concern us all. Early on in the road to Peter’s diagnosis, I took him to a psychiatrist. Peter was only three. At the end of the three week session and nearly $1,000 later, the doctor diagnosed him with ADHD. Desperate for relief, I filled the prescription for Ritalin. After a three day trial with no improvement, the doctor prescribed another stimulant. Nothing helped. I never took Peter back to that doctor and he never inquired again about Peter’s well-being. Peter’s not alone. Statistics show “that more than half of children and teens with autism have been prescribed psychoactive medicine, and over a third have been prescribed two or more at a time.” (http://www.autismspeaks.org/science/science-news/study-finds-most-children-autism-have-taken-psychoactive-medicine) Just like many other children, Peter was simply a guinea pig for a doctor who didn’t have a clue as to how to treat autism. And the rise of autism became just another opportunity for pharmaceutical companies to cash in.

I even have this logo tee.

Since becoming a mom, I’ve noticed another trend. Women are becoming reliant on anti-depressants. Coupled with that is the daily consumption of wine. Lots of it, too. And it doesn’t necessarily have to be five o’clock somewhere to fill up a glass. I’m by no means a teetotaler, but I’m not someone who drinks regularly. At least not in winter. Come summer, bring on the beer.

We can all agree that life runs us ragged. Yet does that require prescription drugs to cope? Please don’t confuse me with Tom Cruise because I was team Brooke during that postpartum depression debate. I won’t argue against hormones. Generally, though, it seems that people turn to medication to either escape from life’s troubles or exist in a numb state for survival. The same is true for people using recreational drugs. Just look at the death of Philip Seymour Hoffman and other Hollywood stars who seem to have it all and turn to drugs to try and satiate an insatiable emptiness. (BTW, I’ve never seen his movies. You might’ve remembered that since my movie tastes are a few decades behind.)

Let’s face it: life never goes as planned. I often sigh and say to myself out loud, “Ahhh. Life!” whenever something happens that I didn’t expect. Like last night at 4 a.m. when I was stripping the bed sheets because my dog threw up in between me and my husband. If there ever were a time to be thankful for a king size bed, this was it. And just like a man, he barely woke up. For me, just exhaling deeply and saying the word ‘life’ is like giving myself the explanation I need to carry on. There’s no changing it. It is what it is. That’s perhaps the greatest, most succinct statement, to just suck it up and move on. Big girl panties optional.

The next time you’re feeling down and think you need a prescription to cope with life, think about this from Dr. Litrel: “We all experience sadness in our lives, a sense of confusion about what we are doing, and, at times, an overwhelming feeling of despair. These are normal human emotions that all too often have a spiritual purpose. Drugs supply relief; but, are they the solution? Health is not just about vital signs, laboratory findings, and medical diagnoses. Part of health is understanding our purpose in life and following that path in our daily actions. When we stray, we are designed to experience unhappiness...[D]epression is not a true diagnosis of the body like cancer or pregnancy. It’s a spiritual discomfort to remind us to look deeper at our lives—and to make a change.” If I did pray, I’d follow up with—Amen.

This quote of the month couldn't be more apropos in light of the snow day fiasco. And isn't the wisdom so applicable to every life at every age? I don't think there ever comes a time in life when we stop learning. Gaining wisdom is the perk of getting older. And even as I sit here in my thirties (no mocking my youth if you're well beyond that), I think wisdom might be a fair trade for wrinkles and grays. Just not at the same time as acne, please.

Also, don't be afraid to speak up when you know better. Don’t be deterred by titles or rank (or money in some cases.) We’re all people. “Higher ups” aren’t immune from making mistakes either. I felt so validated when the principal called me yesterday to tell me that our conversation was a “game changer” and they halted bus dismissals. Nobody should sit by idly, muffled in silence, and too afraid to speak up. Use your voice and stand for something. One of my first posts was about my daughter who was so affected when a peer told her, “If you don’t believe in anything then don’t believe in yourself.” (My computer is acting up so I’ll have to post a link later.) My mind has often wandered back to those words as I try and make sense of why her confidence was so deflated. I get it now. There is no confidence without conviction. And living without conviction isn’t really living at all.